


Metacognition

by vtn



Category: Canadian Music RPF, Matthew Good Band, Sloan (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-04
Updated: 2007-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt eavesdrops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metacognition

He: "Hey, old friend."

She: "Hello, stranger."

The rustling I hear is most likely his hand on the skirt of her dress, and I imagine her arm is also sliding around his shoulders, her skinny elbow draped over his neck.

"Were you planning on staring out the window all day?" she asks.

"I don't know. It helps the time pass faster."

"Well, you know how our dear friend is." I lean closer to the floor vent. "The troll under the bridge. Or, you know." She snaps her fingers. "What's something grumpy?"

"Rumpelstiltskin?" he offers, typically blank.

She laughs. "Your mind works in the strangest way."

Come on. Please. Get back to talking about me more.

"Still. I hope he gets up soon." He sounds like he might be genuinely worried about me, which is a nice change. I smile despite myself.

"He looked exhausted when he got in though. Silly boy. I don't know whether he'd gotten any sleep this week."

Five hours in the past four days, by the way. This doesn't count dozing off during commercial breaks or at stoplights. I couldn't sleep even now. Instead I'm indulging another guilty pleasure.

"Well, he has his, you know, thing," he says sheepishly. Oh, yes. This is what I'm listening for. Finally I'll hear something they can't say to my face. "I guess I don't blame him. But you can't blame me for wishing he didn't."

"Oh, honey." She sighs loud enough that even I can hear. My guess is that her head is on his shoulder now, her fingers with their short hard nails gripping his arm. "We all wish he didn't."

"Well, other than when you use it as an excuse to mother him. He's not a baby."

"Well, neither are you. But you soak it up when I do your laundry for you or cook you dinner."

"Only because I do it all the rest of the damn time for everyone else!" he snaps, defensive. Then he exhales, and I'm guessing she's rubbing his arm reassuringly. 

"That's my point. Most of the time it's just him taking care of him."

He mumbles something inaudible in response.

"What?"

"I said, and he's not even very good at that. Sometimes."

I can't say I disagree. I shrug, lean closer to the vent. They are getting quieter now, but I doubt they think I'm listening.

"Not his fault," she says.

"I'm not always good at taking care of myself either, and I don't even have that excuse." 

They're so silent for a moment that I can hear (or am I just imagining it?) their awkward shifting on the couch.

"What if I never find someone to settle down with me?" he continues. "I'll just keep using you guys for everything I need."

"You're not using—"

"I don't think he'd be happy with that. He wants to be independent, but I—I feel like I need someone, once in a while. Someone who won't laugh when I start acting like I'm piss drunk or, especially, when I can't get in the car because I'm so terrified of accidents I can't move." I hear his fist slam into the couch arm. "I guess we've all got a little of the 'that thing', don't we."

"Do you love him?"

"Part of me wants to, yes," he says.

"He likes you a lot."

"I don't even know if he could pick out love in a line-up."

"That's just your insecurity talking. Come on. Just tell him. You know you can trust him with something like that."

"What the hell. I'm so obvious. I bet he already knows."

I lie back against the wall and laugh silently.


End file.
